Gordon raised his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, aye. Just observin’.”
“Observe elsewhere.”
He turned away, but not fast enough to miss Gordon’s quiet chuckle. The man had survived three campaigns under his command and not once had he learned when to stop.
Aidan forced himself to look elsewhere, to focus on the talk of the men beside him, but every few breaths his attention betrayed him, drifting back to where she stood.
A man stepped toward her, saying something that drew a polite smile to her lips. Aidan recognized him at once—Bruce, laird MacInnis’s son sent last winter to learn the art of command. The lad, a good young man and warrior, was no more than five-and-twenty, broad-shouldered and bright-eyed, all charm and unearned confidence, too eager by half and far too fond of his own voice.
He was leaning close now, gesturing animatedly with his cup, grinning like a man who’d never known caution. Catherine tilted her head, listening with that keen intelligence that always cut sharper than it seemed.
Aidan felt the muscle in his jaw tense and stood before he thought better of it. The motion drew more attention than he intended. Heads turned as he descended the steps from the dais, but he didn’t stop until he reached the table near the hearth.
Catherine looked up as he approached, her smile fading to something unreadable. “Laird Cameron.”
“Lady Catherine.” He inclined his head, his voice even. “I see ye’ve met Bruce MacInnis.”
“Aye,” she said. “He was just tellin’ me how he bested one o’ yer men in the field last week.”
“Was he now?” Aidan’s gaze flicked to Bruce.
The young man straightened, his grin faltering slightly. “Aye, me laird. Just a friendly spar. Thought tae share a tale.”
“Ye didnae mention,” Aidan said, tone mild, “that ye slipped on the mud right before that and near cut yer own boot clean off.”
Catherine’s brows lifted, her lips twitching. Bruce flushed scarlet.
“Ah—well, aye, that happened,” he admitted. “But I recovered.”
“Barely,” Aidan murmured.
Catherine’s laugh escaped before she could stop it, quiet but unmistakable. She pressed a hand to her mouth, turning slightly toward Bruce in an attempt at apology. “I’m sorry, that was cruel.”
Bruce recovered quickly, flashing his boyish smile again. “Nay offense taken, me lady. I’ll earn a truer story next time.”
“See that ye dae,” Aidan said dryly.
The lad nodded and made a hasty excuse to refill his cup, retreating toward the crowd.
Catherine watched him go, then turned back, eyes narrowing. “Ye enjoy humiliatin’ yer men before an audience, then?”
“I enjoy accuracy.”
She folded her arms, unimpressed. “Accuracy or control? Ye’ve a habit o’ correctin’ every man who speaks more than two words in yer presence.”
He met her gaze, steady and unflinching. “And ye’ve a habit o’ challengin’ every man who breathes near ye.”
Her chin lifted. “Only the ones who think they can silence me.”
The music swelled again, laughter rolling through the hall, but for Aidan the noise dimmed. She stood close enough that he could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume beneath the smoke. Her eyes were sharp, daring him to push harder.
“Ye ken, Lady Catherine,” he said quietly, “there’s a difference between speakin’ yer mind and testin’ yer host’s patience.”
“And there’s a difference,” she returned, “between protectin’ a guest and commandin’ her.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “If I were commandin’ ye, lass, ye’d ken it.”
Her breath caught, just slightly. Then she smiled. “Ye mistake me fer someone easily led.”
